And, The Giant Awoke
by RemoWilliams
Summary: What if Tyrion actually did fight The Mountain by himself?
1. Chapter 1

And, The Giant Awoke

Tyrion sat in his cell, the blackness of the night reflecting his thoughts.

"_What now, Imp_?", he asked himself.

When it became clear that no-one was going to champion him, his mind restlessly chewed over possibilities of escape. That proved to be a dry well also. So, now his thoughts ran around like a rat in a trap, ceaselessly repeating "What now? What now?"

He recalled the conversation that he had with Bronn. "_I could fight the Mountain. Maybe even defeat him."_

That earned a laugh from him, a dry bark of amusement that only lasted a second.

Still, the notion was intriguing. Tyrion had learned a necessary amount of war and weapons over the last year and, with no better choices, he began thinking of ways to actually beat one of the greatest killers in the Seven Kingdoms.

By morning, he had a plan.

######################################################################################################

"He asked what!?"

Tywin Lannister glared at Oberyn Martell, who merely returned the gaze with lazy, catlike composure.

"Your son wishes to be let out of his cell to prepare himself for his combat with the mountain." Oberyn added, "He wishes to choose his arms and armor."

"We will choose his arms and armor," Cersei said. "He'll be given the weapons that we feel are necessary."

Oberyn spared her a glance and a raised eyebrow. Didn't she realize how petty she sounded and how much it took away from her beauty? Her brother was going to face a warrior three times his size and probably ten times (Or more) his skill. She was going to argue about sending him into the arena without decent weaponry? "Apparently, Tyrion does not trust others to provide him with proper armor."

Cersei noted the dig about trust and didn't give a damn. "This is a trick." She glanced around at the rest of the Small Council, hoping for support. "Once he's out of his cell, he'll escape."

The Dornish Prince shrugged. "He cannot be refused."

Underneath Cersei's queenly mask of composure, buried deep within her core, there was a spoiled brat of five years old. Having received 99% of every benefit that life had to offer, that brat simply could not understand why it could not be everything. When she heard the word "can't", Cersei's eyes narrowed while her inner child threw a tantrum. "What do you mean, "Can't'?"

"The Laws of Trial by Combat are clear. The accused gets to choose his own weapons."

Across the table, Pycelle nodded reluctantly. "The accused may not choose a offensive weapon that gives him an unfair advantage, such as a mounted rider against one on foot or a crossbow against a sword. Otherwise, any choice may be made."

Everybody in the Small Council (Even Mace Tyrell, it was that obvious) knew that Cersei was itching to deny this request. But, it was also obvious that such a denial would cause a storm of arguments. Given the instability of recent events, any one of the other families might have to do a trial by combat soon. Refusing to give Tyrion his rights would create a precedent that could be used against someone else in the future.

"Tyrion told me that he needs three or four days of freedom." Oberyn had been planning to offer to be Tyrion's champion, but this alternative was not without amusement. He enjoyed baiting Cersei and was also rather curious about what the Little Lion was up to. Besides, there was plenty of time to challenge Clegane later. "He says that he needs the extra time to have weapons crafted for someone of his height. Personally, I think he wants to enjoy some food, wine and women before he dies."

At the head of the table, Tywin made a soft noise of disgust. Suddenly, it all made perfect sense. The lecherous little beast was going to fritter away his last days in the same fashion that he wasted his previous ones. "Very well. He may be released."

Cersei turned to protest, but Tywin cut her off before she could get a word out. "He won't escape the city. We will have all gates watched and all ships inspected. Furthermore, he will released into Prince Oberyn's custody."

"He will?" Oberyn met Tywin's gaze and held it for a long moment before agreeing, "Done."

Standing, he continued, "If you will excuse me, I'm going to go prepare the brothel for my new guest. A good Dornish wine is always a blessing. But, after weeks of nothing, the first cup will seem like a gift from the gods."

##########################################################################################################

True to his father's expectations, Tyrion did get very drunk the first night that he was out of his cell. But, before doing so, he gave detailed instructions to Bronn about some materials that he needed.

Back at the Red Keep, Cersei protested bitterly to Tywin. In response, Tywin pointed out that letting Tyrion have one last debauch before facing the Mountain wouldn't change anything.

Privately, Tywin was rather hoping that Tyrion would try to escape and get caught. The penalty for that would be summary execution and Martell would be responsible for the transgression. Not only would he be finally rid of the curse that the Gods had inflicted upon him, he would be able to hammer Oberyn. Possibly even to saddle him with some of the debt that they owed to the Iron Bank.

But, true to form, Tyrion disappointed Tywin.

On the morning of the Trial by Combat, Tyrion showed up.

Terrified, but ready.

#####################################################################################################

"At this moment, I've never been prouder of being a Lannister." Jaime flicked a glance at his sister. "Or, more ashamed."

His sister and his lover opened her mouth to hiss something vicious at him, but Jaime was already striding across the arena floor towards Tyrion.

Despite his claims to need time to prepare, his brother was entirely without chainmail or plate. Jaime supposed that made sense. Even if armor held up against Gregor Clegane's sword edge, the force behind it would shatter the bones underneath.

All Tyrion was armed with was dagger, ax and shield. The ax had possibilities, Jaime mused. Only one side had a ax blade. The other side had a spike, eight inches long and sharpened to a needle point. A point like that would drive through even the best armor.

Unless, of course, your opponent dodged the attacks. Or caught the blows on thier shield. Or knocked the ax out of one's hands. Or split your skull before you had a chance to even swing.

The sigil on Tyrion's shield was quite interesting. Thicker than usual and all in black, it had a red mountain etched upon it. Centered on the mountain was a golden lion's head with a prominent scar crossing it's face.

After commenting on this, Tyrion tersely informed him that it wasn't a mountain. "It's a hill."

Ah. Hill. Just as bastards up north took the name of Snow and the ones in the Crownlands took the name of Waters, bastards in the Westerlands were known as Hill. One last insult at father and the family name.

As he looked at the shield, Jaime frowned. There was something odd-

The Mountain chose that moment to enter. Eight feet of armor-clad muscle carrying a sword bigger than Tyrion was tall. The crowd, who had been excitedly gabbling away, fell silent. This was going to be a slaughter. Even among the practiced sycophants of the court, the injustice of it tugged at more than few consciences.

Until Tyrion's voice rang out in the hush.

"Ser Gregor! Have you chosen _stench_ as your weapon!?"

For a frozen second, no one could believe that anyone would say such a thing.

Then, Oberyn began to laugh. The sheer tension of the moment suddenly shattered, others began to laugh as well. In a heartbeat, the stands echoed with loud guffaws.

Gregor glared and growled. In his entire life, no single person had ever had the balls to mock him. He was going to cut the little shit's arms and legs off before stomping his skull in.

Before the fight, there were preliminaries. A blessing by the High Septon, other rituals and so forth. The only thing that actually mattered was when Tywin stood and asked Tyrion if he wished to confess his guilt. The unspoken question was: "Do you wish to face the executioner instead? It will be less painful."

Tyrion gave Tywin a death glare that rivaled his own and said, "Whether I live or die, I will never kneel again. I am innocent."

To his credit, Tywin slightly bowed his head and acknowledged his hated son's bravery. Sitting, he simply said, "Begin."

Ser Gregor advanced. Tyrion slowly backed away, hiding behind his shield. One advantage of his size was that practically his entire body was covered.

Small matter, the Mountain thought. One or two good blows will split it apart. With an enormous swipe, he drove the edge of his blade into the little man's shield.

It **thunked!** oddly and Clegane frowned. Having used his sword on just about anything imaginable, he had never heard a noise like that. Something between the crack of bone and the squish of flesh.

His sword stuck, but that was more familiar. Most shields were made of wood and they sometimes "clasped" the blade. Almost by reflex, he tore it out of Tyrion's grasp and grabbed with his free hand to tear it loose.

It would not come loose. Furiously, Ser Gregor yanked harder. Instead, it clung like glue.

Which was an apt description, because his hand was now stuck as well. Snarling, sounding more like a hound than his brother ever did, Clegane pulled. To his baffled fury, the shield actually stretched and he only succeeded in getting more of whatever it was on himself.

At this point, the Mountain should dropped the sword's grip and stove in Tyrion's skull with his fist. He could even have kept both hands occupied and kicked him to death. But, under admittedly unusual circumstances, he made the mistake of being distracted. And, as Bronn pointed out, one mistake is all it takes.

With plate armor, the joints are most vulnerable spots and Tyrion swung desperately for the back of one of Clegane's knees. If he had the chance to think about it, he probably would have missed. Instead, he achieved the odd perfection you get when there is no time and no thought.

With a sound that had _both _the crack of bone and the squish of flesh, the knee was transformed into a mangled ruin. And, with a bellow of rage and pain that heard all the way in Flea Bottom, the Mountain came crashing down.

Everyone, from Tywin down to the lowest commoner serving the wine, was dumbfounded. The Imp had reduced the Mountain to a wreck groveling in the dirt.

Whatever else you could say about Ser Gregor Clegane, there was absolutely no quit in him. Using his unstuck hand, he rose to his unwounded knee and lunged at Tyrion. He missed the grab, but still managed to knock the dwarf sprawling.

For Tyrion, the world went blurry for a moment. He shook off his daze just in time to feel a massive hand seize the hem of his tunic.

Fascinated, Ser Loras watched the Halfman get dragged in by the berserk Mountain. Ser Gregor's left hand was still all tangled up with his sword, shield and whatever the Seven Hells that black stuff was. With the eye of the experienced fighter, Loras noted that, once he brought Tyrion in close, Clegane would have to let go to punch or throttle. That would be the chance to run.

If he had taken that moment to run, Clegane would have finished him. The extra seconds involved to get to his feet would have been cut short by a snapped neck.

However, a fine killing rage had taken hold of Tyrion. There was still fear, yes. But, just as it had during Shae's testimony, a lifetime of unjust scorn fueled a black anger that only wanted to lash out. His father's hatchet man was a perfect target.

When the Mountain brought him in close, it was practically within kissing distance. With no hesitation, Tyrion plucked the dagger from his belt and buried it in his adversary's eye.

Ironically, the bellow of pain that Ser Gregor unleashed did the most amount of damage to Tyrion, deafening him in one ear for nearly a month afterwards.

Scrambling free of his flailing opponent, Tyrion first caught his breath. Then, he picked up the ax which had been kicked off to the side.

With one eye gone and the other blinded by blood, the most feared knight in Westeros was easy meat. Mouth agape and disbelief written across her face, Cersei watched her despised brother drive his ax blade into the gap between Ser Gregor's helm and breastplate.

Smeared with blood and moving slowly from the bruises that were starting to make themselves felt, Tyrion limped forward until he was standing before his father. In the stunned silence, before the entire court of King's Landing, he deliberatly spat on the ground and turned his back on Lord Tywin.

One look on the choking rage that was on the Hand's face was enough to clear out the rest of the spectators quite quickly. Even Cersei swallowed her bitter spite and went back to her quarters without a word.

But, before he left, Jaime went down to Gregor's corpse. Kneeling, he prodded what was left of Tyrion's shield. An odd sweet odor could be detected underneath the smell of blood and a sudden realization left him amazed.

Looking up, he saw Prince Oberyn approach with a strange half-smile on his face. "I do not know if I should hate your brother for taking my revenge or thank him for delivering it." He paused. "I see that your curiousity matches mine. What is that made of?"

"Toffee."

The Red Viper's eyebrows shot up as his legendary composure deserted him in an instant. "What?"

"It's black saltwater toffee," Jaime said. A light coat of dye disguised what it was and help to cut the scent, but under close inspection, it was unmistakeable. "A Westerland specialty. It's so sticky and hard to chew, we used to joke that it would pull the teeth right out of your jaw if you were careless."

The Kingslayer gestured at Clegane's corpse. "The Mountain. Dead because of twenty pounds of candy."

He started to laugh helplessly and Oberyn joined him.

In the bad times that followed (And, some of them were very bad indeed) that memory never failed to make either man smile and chuckle.

###########################################################################################################

After the Trial by Combat, Shae approched Cersei for the payment that she'd been promised. Cersei, who had listened the tale of Tyrion "betrayal", took some small enjoyment in telling Shae the true facts of what happened.

"My brother has a unduly high regard for whores," Cersei said. "I don't. You underestimated the lengths that I would go to hurt him. He didn't. He drove you away so that you would be beyond my reach. If he really didn't care, Tyrion could have gotten rid of you by letting father hang you. And, you were a fool for not seeing that."

Shae saw both certainty and cruelty in the Queen's eyes and felt sickened. "And my payment?", she made herself ask.

Cersei laughed. "You truly _are_ a whore." She gestured towards a small chest. "A Lannister always pays their debts. The full amount is right here. As well as a bonus."

"A bonus, your Majesty?"

"Yes," Cersei said. "A whipping."

Jaw dropping, Shae finally managed to stammer out, "W-what?"

With a sweet, ugly smile Cersei continued, "Consider what I said about whores and hanging. When you are finished being whipped, don't forget to thank me for my restraint."

###########################################################################################################

The two brothers stood silently looking up at the ship that would take Tyrion to Braavos. Neither knew how to say the goodbye that was inevitable.

There had been surprisingly little difficulty in gathering up Tyrion's things, mostly his books and maps. A surprising amount of public support had developed for him. Many people took the point of view that, for him to survive the fight with the Mountain, Tyrion must truly be favored by the gods.

Once he understood that his son was going into voluntary exile, Tywin washed his hands of the entire affair and refused to speak of it any further. Cersei wanted him dead, but was apparantly going to wait until he left King's Landing before sending assassins.

Back when Joffery was still alive, Tyrion had the vague sense that he might have to leave town quickly to save his neck. Therefore, he had some gold and gems stashed away for a quick departure. He'd have to more careful than he'd been in the past, but he wouldn't starve.

"My lords!"

They turned and saw Prince Oberyn striding towards them.

"I will be sorry to see you leave, Lord Tyrion. A Lannister that I both like and respect is a rare creature."

Jaime and Tyrion both smirked at the combined compliment and insult.

"Despite your recent prowess as a warrior, you'll still need a blade to guard your back." Oberyn handed Tyrion a scroll and continued, "Ser Dellyne Martell, a cousin of mine, is residing in Braavos and is a superb swordsman. This letter will be an introduction and a recommendation, but the final choice will be his."

"You should get along well. He also had to leave Westeros because of an argument with his father." Martell hesitated for a moment, then held his hand out to shake.

A moment of respect from a noted warrior. This alone almost made the duel worth it. Tyrion shook his hand and said, "Be well, my friend."

"And you, as well." With nothing more to be said, Oberyn exchanged nods with Jaime, turned and left with an easy saunter.

There was nothing else to be said between the to brothers, either. Wordlessly, they embraced.

Then, without a backwards look, Tyrion walked up the gangplank and left everything-family, home and all that he had ever known- behind him.

###########################################################################################################

And so, Ser Gregor Clegane, The Mountain met his death at the hands of Lord Tyrion Lannister, The Imp, The Halfman and The Little Lion.

The ballad that was made after the duel gave him a new name: The Giant of Casterly Rock.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2.

The ocean voyage was uneventful. Between the grief of the past , fear of the future and sheer force of habit, Tyrion stayed drunk for nearly the entire voyage.

When he disembarked at Braavos, he wasn't completely sober, but he was capable of walking a straight line.

Later, he blamed the wine fumes in his head for not noticing the assassins.

Although it wasn't as pronounced as her other hatreds, Cercei had a profound distrust of foreigners. So, the killers that she sent after her brother were men of Westeros, arriving ahead on a faster ship.

If she had simply sent money and instructions to hire local thugs, our tale would have ended here. Tyrion would have bled out in the street a mile from the piers and no passerby would have cared.

But, like all lands, there are unwritten rules that are as ironclad as any law set forth by Lord or King. The lifeblood of Braavos was trade and only a fool would attack a ship that had just docked. Both the Ship's crew and dockworkers would be on hand to unload and anything that was taken was less pay for them.

Ser Donal Gorefield saw the Imp striding towards the gangplank and grinned. As he drew his sword, he pictured the lands that the Queen had promis-

"BANDITS! BANDITS! BANDITS ON THE DOCK!"

Ser Donal didn't see who yelled the first warning. Not that it mattered. Within moments, the cry was taken up by a dozen voices and him and his four accomplices were surrounded. Grim-faced men hefted clubs and axes and waited for somebody to be stupid enough to make the first move.

Which, unfortunately, was Egbert, Donal's younger brother. Before his sibling could protest that they weren't bandits, Egbert rushed the nearest man in a panic. What followed was bloody, brutal and over very, very quickly.

The ship's Captain nodded in satisfaction as the corpses were kicked into the ocean for the crabs to feast on. "The lads did well in protecting the cargo. I'll have a cask or two of wine opened for them once they're done unloading." He cocked an eye at his passenger, who'd been a decent sort for a Lord. "Will you be joining us?"

A suddenly sober Tyrion looked at the bloodstains on the dock and shook his head. "I believe that I've had my fill for a while."

########################################################################

Setting up a new place to live took more time and far more money than Tyrion expected. But, after a few days, everything was settled enough for him to go looking for Ser Dellyne Martel.

Braavos had what were known as Training Halls, which were a combination of a tavern, an armory and a brothel. A fellow could work up an appetite with a few matches, cool down with a meal and a few ales and finish off the day with a woman.

Very sensible, Tyrion decided.

Ser Dellyne was a younger, more newly-minted version of Prince Oberyn. He had the same dark hair, worn long. The same features, sharper and clean-shaven.

But, even if didn't resemble Oberyn physically, Dellyne's personality would have marked him as a blood relative. He had the same lazy blend of elegance and arrogance. The same sense that he was perpetually amused by the world around him.

That amusement increased as he took in the sight of the dwarf in front of him, offering a scroll with his cousin's seal upon it.

Dellyne cracked it open and rapidly read through it. A murdered King, struck down at his own wedding. Old hatreds pitting father against son, brother against sister. A Little Lion using trickery to triumph over a Mountain.

This would make a sensational ballad. Already, he could hear the tune in his head.

Still, business first. He looked at the little lord, who had ordered a pitcher of wine and was already on his third cup, and asked simply, "Now what?"

Tyrion set the goblet down and frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I do not mind bodyguarding. It is a simple enough task and it gives me time to work on my music. So, I will watch your back." Dellyne fixed Tyrion with a direct glance as he continued, "But, my cousin has made it clear that you will receive no help from your family. What will you do and more importantly, what will you pay me with once your wealth runs out?

Despite never having to earn a living in his entire life, Tyrion didn't look worried. Instead, he replied, "Oh, I have a few ideas."

No doubt about that. There was a ruthless intelligence in his eyes. This was a man who would change the world.

If the world didn't kill him first.

"Done! I will watch your back." Dellyne drained his own glass and gestured for his new employer to refill it.

"Excellent." Tyrion took the opportunity to top off his own drink. "By the way, your cousin told me that you are also estranged from your father. Do you mind if I ask why?"

"It is no secret. Since I was a boy, I have loved music. My fondest wish is to be famous not as a great lord or great warrior, but as a great bard." Dellyne shrugged. "My father saw it as an unworthy occupation for a man of noble blood."

"Also, I fucked both of his mistresses."

Dellyne timed that last bit perfectly and it caught Tyrion in the middle of taking a sip of wine. He literally _woofed_ into his goblet and got a mouthful all over the tabletop.

After a few moments of laughing and coughing, Tyrion got himself under enough control to sputter out, "Separately? Or, together at the same time?"

"Together at the same time." Dellyne smiled in fond memory. "And, before you ask, yes, I did write a song about it. That was the final straw for my father."

Tyrion held his wine up in a toast. "To fathers!"

"To fathers!"

They drank and a new partnership was born.

########################################################################

The next order of business was to go to the district of Braavos where books and maps were made, traded and sold. This was done by scriveners, who laboriously copied each one by hand. Sometimes it was on commission, sometimes it was ahead of time in the hopes that it would find a buyer.

Bartel had the most solid reputation for honesty and Tyrion introduced himself to the man and his three sons.

Maps had always fascinated Tyrion, mostly due to a not so unconscious wish to be elsewhere, and he had spent his entire life collecting them. During his brief tenure as Hand, he had taken the opportunity to ransack the city for the best ones.

Whether you're a Braavosi Captain or a Norvoshi Caravan Leader, an accurate map is worth a fair amount of gold. Tyrion gave Bartel an inventory of what he had and, in turn, the scrivener would tell customers of what was available. For every copy that was made, Tyrion would get a cut.

Dellyne was impressed. The operation was simple, straightforward, benefited everyone involved and left Tyrion open to pursue other interests. For a man with little experience in creating profit, he was certainly off to a good beginning.

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The next night, at dinner, Tyrion actually found himself to be feeling cheerful. Less than a fortnight in Braavos and he had a roof over his head, a sword at his side and gold coming in the door. Not bad.

The same could not be said of the fish that he was eating. Too salty. There was a nearby tavern and a wench brought over their meals. The innkeeper always put too much salt in the food to encourage more drinking.

Now that Tyrion knew that he wouldn't be facing poverty, the next thing to do would be to hire a cook.

A furor from the kitchen interrupted his musings. Dellyne had just went in to get some fruit and it didn't take a huge leap of logic to realize that intruders had come in through the back door.

Well justified paranoia meant that weapons were always handy and both an ax and a loaded crossbow were nearby. But, Tyrion barely had time to get out of his chair before the door crashed open and a sword-wielding bullyboy burst in.

With a quick motion, Tyrion pulled his dagger and threw it.

And, missed the hired killer completely.

In quick succession, the carving knife, both eating knives, the wine pitcher and the serving tray were also thrown with varied degrees of skill.

Infuriated by the onslaught, the sellsword brought the blade down in an arc that would have split the Imp from neck to crotch. However, in his anger and lack of experience in fighting someone so small, he missed as Tyrion took a leaping step towards him, stepping inside the cut.

A second afterwards, he shrieked to high heaven as he took a serving fork to the balls. As he folded up in agony, the rest of him conveniently came down to Tyrion's level. The killer's shriek broke off to a gurgle as his throat was torn open.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, two of the hired killers lay dead while Dellyne held off the other three. He was in a good position, back against the wall, but he'd taken a wound to his leg and it was slowing him.

The one on the right collapsed forward with a bolt in his back. Behind the remaining two, Tyrion threw down the crossbow and struggled to pull the ax from his belt.

Two abruptly became one. Distracted by the attack coming from the rear, the man on the left let his guard waver and took a blade in his heart.

The remaining sellword cursed, wheeled and charged Tyrion. With the bodyguard's leg sliced up, he could kill the dwarf in passing and outdistance the other man out of the other door.

For Tyrion, it was like a dream. Or nightmare. He saw the sword thrust coming, his mind was working at lightning speed and his body was working at a snail's pace. The ax barely came up in time and the sword went into his shoulder instead of his guts.

A second stab never came. Dellyne threw his dagger with greater accurracy than Tyrion had and the blade nailed their final opponent in the neck.

Oddly, it didn't look to be painful. As the killer collapsed to his knees, one hand reached up to pluck at the dagger and he seemed more puzzled than anything else. Then, the light faded from his eyes and he collapsed on his side.

As he bound up their wounds, Tyrion asked the other man if he was going to make a song out of this as well.

"Why do you ask?"

"Because", Tyrion said with deadpan humor, "At the moment, I'm damned if I can think of a word that rhymes with "kitchen'".

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Dellyne took his wound with good humor, regarding it as a normal cost of business. However, he warned Tyrion that they would have to hire more guards. Partially because his leg needed to recover and partially in anticipation of future attacks.

Hopefully, business at the scrivener's was good. They needed the money.

When they arrived to check on things, bizarrely, the problem was that business was too good.

########################################################################

Bartel ran a hand over his balding scalp and looked flustered. "We simply can't keep up with demand. One map alone has a request for eight copies. Eight! Probably be twice as many before the week is out and that's to say nothing of the other commissions." He sighed. "Your taste in books and maps is superb, my lord. A week ago, I would not have considered that to be a problem."

"Can you not get help from some of the other shops?", Dellyne asked.

"I'm **not** sending my customers to other shops. Besides, they all have their own work to do."

"I understand. And, turning away business is even worse." Tyrion headed for the door, signaling that the impromptu meeting was over. "I have a few thoughts on how to solve this and I'll speak to again in a few days. For now, begin completing the first orders."

########################################################################

In truth, Tyrion had no idea on what to do next.

However, whatever else you could say about his father, he was a capable leader. One of the things that Tywin had always demonstrated was that, when things were uncertain, that was when you had to display the most certainty.

Sitting at the remains of another disappointing dinner and toying with his wine goblet, Tyrion racked his brains. Some of the wine had spilled and, absently, he used the base of the metal cup to make patterns on the tablecloth.

Put it in the wine puddle, press down on an unmarked section. Put it in the wine puddle, press down on an unmarked section. Now, there was a set of red circles on the white tablecloth.

Inspiration struck. Many people later remarked that it was only fitting that wine would be the catalyst for one of the Little Lion's ideas.

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A few days later, Bartel and his sons were busy working on a blocky contraption while Tyrion explained things to an interested Dellyne.

A copper engraving had been made of a map. Wood had been considered, but metal can show more fine detail and Tyrion had decided that it was worth the extra cost. A wine press, ironically, had been modified while the engraving was being made.

Numerous minute adjustments and fine-tunings had to occur with regards to ink and paper and pressure. But, Bartel had been a fountain of knowledge on those subjects and progress had been rapid.

One of the sons, Alester, turned the crank. Down went the plate. Up it went again and, in seconds, the paper was peeled off of the engraving and hung up to dry. A perfect copy.

Bartel had also been knowledgeable of the subject of sales. Now that they could print maps quicker and more easily, they could lower the price and still achieve larger profits.

"A lower price will mean more customers," the shopkeeper said earnestly.

"Then, by all means, make it so."

Many of Tyrion's deeds (Or misdeeds, depending on one's point of view) would make it into song and legend. This one never did. However, in the centuries to come, this achievement would change the world more than any King or God.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter. 3

Back in Westeros, events had not been idle.

The door shut behind a triumphant Cercei as she stalked away from her speechless father.

_Everything they say is true._

Tywin reached for some wine, saw the way his hand trembled and willed it to be still. It still shook and he slammed it down on the table in a fury.

_Right in front of me. Jaime and Cercei._

For a long moment, he allowed himself the luxury of rage and sorrow.

Then, his usual iron control, born in his family's past humiliations and tempered to diamond ruthlessness in the decades since, reasserted itself. Calmly, Tywin sat down and began to plot about what to do next.

########################################################################

Less than a week later, Tywin was in the middle of giving some instructions to his brother, Kevan, when Jaime walked in.

To say that things had been awkward between the two of them was a vast understatement. Now that the truth was confirmed, father and son could not look each other in the eye. Meetings and mealtimes were horribly strained affairs where silence was only slightly more bearable than what was being unsaid.

Not that it was uncomfortable for Cercei. She smirked like a cat and loved the chaos that she'd created.

However, when Jaimie now entered, he looked his father in the eye and burned with decisive energy.

"Father, I hear that you're planning an invasion of the Iron Islands and that the launching point will be Lannisport."

Tywin glared at Kevan, who had the good grace to look abashed. "I'm sorry, brother. I tried to keep things as secret as possible."

"As secret as possible is not good enough! Spies are everywhere in King's Landing and if the enemy-"

"Don't blame Uncle Kevan," Jaime interrupted. "I grew up in Lannisport. Anything of note that occurs there, sooner or later, I would know of it."

Settling back in his chair, Tywin narrowed his eyes at his son. "Now that you know about the invasion, what of it?"

"I wish to be a part of it."

"You already have duties. Your precious Kingsguard loyalties," Tywin sneered.

Jaime's chin tightened, but he kept his patience and continued, "Dealing with rebels is part of my duties to the Kingsguard. I've already spoken to Tommen and he will release me from the Royal Court."

He hesitated before what he was about to say next. It was never good to admit weakness in an argument, but it had to be said. "There is still time for me to known for deeds other than breaking my oath."

During the ensuing discussion, Tywin was tempted to try to get Jaime to leave the Kingsguard. Unfortunately, as an experienced negotiator he knew that would be too great of a demand. In the end, it was decided that Kevan would still have overall command, but Jaime would be doing most of the day-to-day responsibilities.

Once that was grudgingly settled, Tywin said to Jaime, "Leave us. I still have things to say to your uncle."

Sympathetically, apologetically, Jaime nodded at Kevan and walked out.

After the door shut, there was a long moment of silence between the two brothers.

Then, very quietly, Tywin said, "You've done very well."

"Thank you."

########################################################################

Cercei came to see Tywin next, three days later, wrapped in her finest arrogance and seething with a bitchy attitude.

Tywin did not even bother looking up and just kept writing.

Into the icy silence, Cercei finally said, "I suppose you think you're clever."

"Generally speaking? Or, do you mean something in particular?"

"Your effort to remove Jaime from my presence", she spat.

Jaime knew before even before speaking to Tywin that the "accidental" revelation of the Iron Islands invasion was a ruse designed to separate him and his sister. But, it was easier to maintain a polite fiction with his father.

Rudeness, in comparison, was what came easy to Cercei.

"Have you already forgotten my threat?", she continued.

"Revealing your sordid affair will change nothing. Humiliating your children will just make Jaime angry with you and wish to leave quicker." Tywin blotted the paper while speaking in the same level voice. "You are welcome to try to convince Tommen to forbid Jaime from leaving. That will also make him angry with you and split you apart." Calmly, he looked up and held her gaze. "I assume you've already tried to convince Jaime."

She had. She'd tried tears, pleas and promises and all had failed.

She hated this. Hated being thwarted. Hated feeling powerless. Hated the oh-so-patient tone of voice her father was using.

"At least one of your wishes shall become reality", Tywin said. "I've spoken to Ser Loras and I've received a raven from Lady Olenna. Your wedding to Loras has been called off."

Perhaps it was for the best, Tywin had decided. They had been almost as relieved that the wedding was cancelled as Cercei would be. Sometimes it didn't hurt to show a little generosity to an ally.

"And, the wedding of Margaery to Tommen?"

Tywin raised his eyebrows. Not even a moment for thanks? Not that he'd expected any. "That wedding will take place as planned, one month from now."

"Never", Cercei vowed.

Unexpectedly, Tywin shrugged. "Very well. The wedding **won't** take place."

Unexpectedly was a bit of an understatement. If Tywin had started doing backflips, it would not have been more astounding. Cercei's jaw dropped and she finally managed to stammer out, "Wh-what?"

"The Royal Wedding won't take place." He paused for a moment. "Then what?"

"I don't understand."

Swordplay was excellent for teaching strategy. Although all people saw Tywin as unyielding, sometimes it was best to yield in a duel at a crucial moment. Your enemy would expect resistance, find none and be off balance. And, completely open for the killing stroke.

"I asked "Then what?". We face winter and need food. We face debt and need gold. If we do not get these things from the Tyrells, where will we get them?"

The patient tone that you would use with an idiot child was back and, worse, Cercei felt like one. She had no answer and tried to cover it with imperiousness. "We are the Lannisters of Casterly Rock. We possess the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms and-"

"THOSE ARE JUST WORDS!"

Tywin's roar silenced Cercei and she stared wide-eyed at her father, whose temper had reached the breaking point.

"My father was a Lannister! Lord Paramount of the Westerlands and Warden of the West. It didn't stop him from being mocked and cheated at every turn. The High Septon carried the weight and the authority of the Seven Gods. It didn't stop him from being torn apart by the mob."

The anger faded and what was left in Tywin was tired disappointment. Deep down, he could forgive the incest with Jaime. He could forgive any rule breaking as long as it could be balanced out with magnificent victories. But, ignoring problems with blind willfull stupidity, that he could not forgive.

"Snapping your fingers and saying, "I am Queen" will not stop a hundred thousand peasants armed with hate and hunger. To the Braavosi, the Iron Throne is just a twisted piece of scrap metal. If they choose to fund our enemies, how long do think we will last?" Tywin laughed, a short bitter sound. "The Dornish have one of the few armies that's still untouched and Prince Oberyn would go to war with us for a bent copper."

The sheet that he had been working on was now dry and Tywin added it to a large stack. The sheaf of papers was nearly the size of a book and Tywin picked up the entire lot and held it out to Cercei.

She looked at it like it was a poisonous snake. "What is that?"

"The finances of Westeros. What we have. What we need. Interest payments to the Iron Bank. The costs of further military actions. How much food we currently have and where it's being produced. And so forth."

"I meant what I said. I will call off Tommen's wedding to Margaery in a heartbeat. But, only if you find a solution that works just as well." He tapped the paper for emphasis. "Give me your plans and show me how the numbers add up and I will listen."

Cercei looked at the pages blankly, looked at her father and walked out of the room without another word.

Tywin sighed and dropped the papers on his desk.

The admission could not be dragged out of him with hot pokers, but, right now, the barest fraction of him actually missed Tyrion.

Tyrion was an obstinate ugly little creature that Tywin despised with every particle of his being. However, he was also a realist when it came to problems, clear-minded (When not drunk) with solutions, quick to admit ignorance and quick to learn afterwards.

He would have taken the papers and returned in a week's time with possibilities. The process would have been accompanied by too much wine and sarcasm, but results would have been made. Now, instead, Tywin was going to need to have Cercei watched to ensure that she didn't make a mess of things to get whatever short-term goal she desired.

Perhaps, (In a few months, no pressing need, Tyrion's not truly important) Varys should begin gathering information on his second son and what he's currently doing.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4.

Tyrion scratched his shoulder wound.

He read somewhere that the itching was a good sign and that it meant that it was healing.

The same book also said that a certain type of purple-hued seaweed was good for use as a bandage and would fight any infection. A day after the attack, he (Alone. Oddly, Dellyne tended to get seasick.) had taken a boat out, found some, used it to pad both of their wounds and it seemed to be working.

All in all, Tyrion supposed that he should be grateful that he survived the fight and twice as grateful that the wound didn't go bad on him. He had enough problems without losing a limb.

Still, he wished his damned shoulder wouldn't itch so much.

Currently, Dellyne and him were seated in one of Braavos's better taverns, finishing a meal with Ranulf Stonehouse, an Ironborn.

The Stonehouses were one of the noble families of the Iron Islands, hailing from Old Wyk. Ranulf came from one of the lesser branches, although that was the only situation that "lesser" could be applied to him.

Most big burly men tend to have the term "bear-like" applied to them, but Tyrion had never seen anyone who could wear the title better.

At a shade over seven feet tall, Ranulf was broad-shouldered, barrel-chested and deep-gutted. He had a great, tangled mane of brown hair, a surprisingly neat brown beard ("I don't care if my hair gets overgrown," he growled as they sat down to eat. "But, if my beard gets messy, it gets in the way of my food.") and a pair of brown eyes peering out of a ruddy face.

He'd been exiled from the Iron Islands in the wake of the Greyjoy Rebellion. After receiving a pardon for fighting in the war, he had killed three men a week later in a tavern brawl. One of them had been the son of an important lord and Ranulf had fled with a price on his head. Mercenary work had been his vocation ever since.

"We rolled the dice to see who would stand for the next round of drinks. The lord's son lost and refused to pay. That's rude."

Despite his gutteral voice, history of violence and the well-used battle-ax that he carried, Ranulf proved to be a surprisingly pleasant person. During the meal, Tyrion had explained the current circumstances and Ranulf had agreed to sign on as a bodyguard. On one condition.

"And the condition is?"

"Hire a good cook." To underline his point, Ranulf took the last bite of (His 5th) meat pie and washed it down with a gulp (Or, considering the size and the sound of it, a gollup) of wine.

Tyrion nodded with a lack of surprise and said, "_You_ hire the cook."

"What?"

"Well," Tyrion said. "You've been in Essos longer than I and you've probably visited Braavos a few times."

"A few," Ranulf admitted with a grin.

"And, during those stays, you've probably had a few meals."

Ranulf looked at what was left of what had been a large repast and laughed. "A few."

"You'll probably know best on who to hire." Tyrion poured himself the last of the wine and added, "Just try to keep the wages reasonable."

Ranulf looked over at Dellyne. "If he's as sensible with all of his decisions as he is with this one, this'll be a fine job."

########################################################################

The three of them were barely out of the door when they were set upon by armed thugs.

"DAMNATION!", Ranulf roared. "Give a man time to let his stomach settle!"

The lead warrior was heavily armored and approached the Ironborn without fear. But, while many did a good job of protecting their head, heart and other vitals, they often sacrificed steel over mobility with regard to their feet. When the first man thrust with his sword, Ranulf slapped the blade aside with his ax and stomped on his enemy's unarmored boot, pulverizing a half a dozen bones.

The man howled and, as he fell, was shoved by Ranulf into the two right behind him. The trio of would be assassins became a flailing knot of arms and legs. Professionally, Ranulf beheaded one, split the skull of a second and brought his foot down again on the neck of a third, snapping it with a loud crack.

Two of the men of the men had managed to get past the furor and came face to face with Dellyne.

"I am not as light on my feet as I usually am," Dellyne remarked. His sword was already balanced in one hand and he pulled a slender throwing knife with the other. "Fortunately, this blade can still move well." And, he threw the knife with a lightening gesture.

The closer killer brought his sword up to block. A heartbeat later, he realized that the throw had been a fake to get him to raise his guard.

This was a heartbeat too late. Dellyne's sword entered about an inch below where his ribs met and gutted him.

The second man hesitated.

Two thugs were left and one was already sinking to the ground, bleeding from several gashes. The other thought he saw an opening and leapt in on Ranulf's unprotected side. Almost lazily, Ranulf backhanded the man with his left fist, brought his ax around and caved the side of his chest in.

At this point, the second man (To be more accurate, the last man) decided that retreat was better than valor and took to his heels.

Gazing after the vanishing figure, Tyrion remarked dryly, "A brave man."

"Given the circumstances, you would have run too, my lord."

Tyrion looked at Dellyne and replied, "Not at all."

"No?", Dellyne asked with evident skepticism.

"No. After the first few failures, I would have armed the men with longbows and shot us from a distance." He frowned suddenly. "Now that I think upon it, why haven't they?"

"The Queen...", a husky voice rasped, causing all three to jump.

Even though he had several wounds, three of which were mortal, one of the hired killers was clinging to life. Not for long, however.

Ranulf was impressed. "I'll drink to your death tonight."

"Give me the wine now, and I'll tell you a secret."

The innkeeper had come out with the others to watch the fight and snapped to attention when Tyrion tossed him a silver. "Bring a bottle of fine red. He's earned the good stuff."

When the wine was produced, the man took a healthy swallow and grinned lopsidedly up at the dwarf. "Your sister, the Queen. She wants you wounded and helpless. Then, (_Kaff_) then, you can be fed poison. Same that killed the King. The Strangler."

Again, Ranulf was impressed. When Lord Tyrion had described the hatred that his family had for him, he'd thought the man had been exaggerating. If anything, the sibling spite had been understated.

For Tyrion, this was business as usual. He smirked and said, "Nice to know that my sister still thinks fondly of me." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realized he was speaking to a dead man.

He tossed another silver to the Innkeep. "See to it that this man is buried with the bottle. Whether he ends up in some Heaven or Hell, he can enjoy a drink when he gets there."

########################################################################

Another one of the things that Ranulf insisted on was geese.

Unlike Dellyne, Ranulf had done bodyguarding before. And, he'd figured out how to train geese as watchdogs. Quiet once the sun went down, the geese would set up a racket when an intruder approached.

"And, unlike dogs," Dellyne remarked, "If one of them proves to be untrainable, you can eat them."

"Oh, I've had dog a time or two." Ranulf scratched his beard meditatively. "Not too bad either. Depends on the kind of seasoning you use."

Two nights after the fight at the tavern, everybody woke to the sound of geese frantically honking mingled with the sound of men shouting and dying.

The lone survivor of the previous fight collapsed through the back door and died at the feet of the three men, two arrows sticking out of his back. A cursory look outside showed five more men dead, shafts sticking out of them.

Obviously, the first man had been the one holding the money and had decided to take another run at it with local talent. Now, the only question that remained was: Who killed these men?

An answer wasn't long in coming. A slender figure on a nearby rooftop untrung her bow and used a rope to climb down the side of the building.

Fortunately, this took some time and gave Tyrion the chance to recover his wits, which had been stunned at the sight of her.

As she came closer, he gave her a courtly, elegant bow. "Lady Arya."

Arya responded with a curtsy, rusty from lack of use. "Lord Tyrion."

"I owe you a debt. Perhaps I can begin repaying it with a late supper?"

Nodding curtly, Arya warily went inside.

########################################################################

The two of them studied each other carefully as they sat at the dinner table and Arya wolfed down bread, meat and cheese.

Instinctively, she wanted to hate him simply because he was a Lannister. Equally, she was prepared to be sympathetic because her greatest enemies, Tywin and Cercei had spent their entire lives treating him like dirt.

When Arya and the Hound had heard about Tyrion being put on trial, Sandor had laughed at the notion of his guilt.

"I can see him killing the King," the Hound had said as they sat at the evening campfire. "Joffrey and the Imp hated each other. Once the royal brat sat on the Iron Throne, it was only a matter of time before he sent somebody to kill the dwarf. Way I see it, kinslaying's not a sin if they try to kill you first." He scratched at his neck irritably and went on. "But, much as I hate the little shit, he's no fool. If he set up the murder, Lord Tyrion would be a hundred miles away before Joffrey was cold."

"The Queen is probably so blind with rage and grief, she can't see the truth." He speared a sausage with a stick and held it over the flames to roast, like an enemy dying a slow death by torture. "Lord Tywin knows, but doesn't care. It's a perfect way to get rid of the Halfman."

The memory didn't really help to sort out her thoughts. "I heard that you married Sansa," Arya said, almost blurting the words.

"I did."

"Did you force her?"

"My father did." Tyrion sighed. "Not that it mattered who gave the orders. The result was the same. She was marrying a dwarf and a Lannister."

Arya fixed him with a direct gaze and her hand unconsciously tighted on her eating knife. "I meant afterwards. Did you **force** her?"

Her eyes had become disturbing since they last had seen each other, but Tyrion met them directly, glare for glare. "No."

Suddenly, he grimaced, in remembrance of the horrible farce his marriage had been. "She would have submitted if I had ordered it. Probably with that same damned mask of politeness that she used to endure everything else. But, underneath, she would have been disgusted to the bottom of her soul."

Whether it was from life, luck or a vicious enemy, Arya knew what it was like to get completely screwed over. She saw the remembrance of helpless anger in Tyrion's eyes, compared it to her own and believed him.

She wasn't ready to trust him, not yet. But, she also wasn't ready to hate him, either.

When Arya left that evening, Tyrion said with quiet sincerity, "If you need a place to sleep, a meal or even just a desire to visit, please return if you wish."

"I will." And Arya said the two words that she never pictured herself saying to any Lannister.

"Thank You."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5.

Some weeks pass by with relative quiet.

And, the storms of winter gather.

########################################################################

Jaime finished his preparations in leaving for Lannisport.

One benefit of Cercei giving him the cold shoulder was that it gave him more time to spar with Bronn. His skill had grown much greater recently, especially since he'd had a particularily enlightening discussion.

"I knew a soldier once who'd had his swordhand chopped off," Bronn said, as he tucked away the latest payment from Jaime. "Still was a devil in a fight."

"How?"

Bronn demonstrated with a gouging gesture. "Used a sword in one hand and a hook for his old one."

Jaime looked down at his gold hand. "Well..."

Rolling his eyes, Bronn said, "Bugger me, I know a hook would be too common for a Lannister. That's not what I'm saying."

"Look, you used your left hand during swordwork all of the time, with a shield or a dagger. So, you know how. Your problem is, you're thinking that your right is useless, that you got to do everything with your left and that thought is choking you."

"That fancy hand of yours ain't useless. It'll block a blade or crack a skull." He tossed Jaime a blade that was either a very heavy dagger or a somewhat short sword. "Lead with your right like always, just like you used to. Then, trade off with the dagger in your left."

The sellsword was rude as hell, but tough and smart. Jaime saw why Tyrion had valued the man's company. One of the last things that he did before leaving King's Landing was to hire the man for the upcoming campaign.

"Blood and gold, war and loot." Bronn grinned. "So far, being a gentleman is just like my old life."

########################################################################

When Robin Arryn took the Throne of the Eyrie after his mother's death, a series of visits to various noble houses were planned, in order to acquaint the boy with his realm and his subjects.

Lord Yohn Royce still didn't trust Baelish. But, he hadn't liked or trusted Lysa Arryn either. He had done his duty by his oaths and the memory of his deceased liege, but it did not make him blind to the faults of a madwoman.

Littlefinger, at least, was making sensible choices. You could tolerate a lot from a man provided that he produced results.

A large tournament was planned at Gulltown, to mark the boy's arrival.

Elsewhere in the Vale, Brienne was planning on entering that tournament. You didn't need horses in order to enter the Melee (Which was a free-for-all on foot) and the prize money could be used to buy more mounts.

She related the details that she had heard about to Pod, who wore a puzzled frown.

"What is it?"

Pod said slowly, "Littlefinger will be attending? Along with his niece, Alayne?"

"Yes. So?", Brienne asked impatiently.

"I've never heard of Lord Baelish having a niece."

She gave her squire an annoyed (And, in her opinion, too often used) look. "With as many enemies as he has, it's not surprising that he would keep family out of sight. It isn't important, Pod."

His eyes still puzzled, Pod reluctantly nodded. "I guess not."

########################################################################

Tyrion sat at the new desk in his new office inside his new home, pondering over recent events and planning for the future.

Quite a lot of the Iron Bank's business involved the same paperwork and contracts repeated over and over again with only minor variations. So, a deal was made, with printing being exchanged for a sprawling new residence.

The place had originally been a theater. But, flooding was always a danger in a city with hundreds of canals and lagoons. When the lower floors had become swamped, the manager had looked at the cost to fix it, chosen to take what money was left and fled the city.

Compared to the sewers of Casterly Rock, pumping out the water was simplicity itself. The upper floors of the building were easy to defend and Tyrion and his household took them as their living quarters. And, the stage gave Dellyne a place to showcase his music.

(There was also an additional unknown benefit. Master Tenoch, the leader of the Scrivener's Guild, hated the erosion of his influence in the face of the new printing press. Knowing that previous attempts on the dwarf's life gave him a perfect alibi, he hired killers to smash the presses and kill the rogue scriveners involved.

Then, he heard about the contract with the Iron Bank, hastily called it all off and decided to simply take his lumps. One of Master Tenoch's strengths was that he knew when he was outclassed.)

All religions were free to preach and practice in Braavos. Red priests, the Faith of the Seven, the Drowned God and several other esoteric cults all had temples. And, most of them were quick to grasp the benefits of mass-produced religious literature.

In short order, half of the scrivener houses in Braavos had presses, all churning out books and maps and sending a steady stream of gold back to Tyrion.

Shortly after they moved in, Ranulf found a cook.

Jelena was a handsome woman in her fifties who must have been absolutely stunning in her youth. Born a slave in Lys, she had no idea on who her parents were or what her nationality had been. With black hair and light cinnamon skin, Jelena could pass for a Dornish, a Summer Islander or any of a half-a-dozen other peoples.

She had been bought by a wealthy Merchant and his Wife, who both had shared two great passions in life: food and women. The Merchant had been the Wife's friend since youth and was always kind and understanding of her preferences. Although there was no desire between them, the two loved each other in their own way and managed to produce two boys and a girl.

Jelena grew to love them both. She learned cooking from the Wife, reading from the Merchant and shared both their beds. When they died, she mourned their passing and watched over the next generation like they were her own.

Plague decimated the Merchant's house and control passed to a cousin who was a fool. Jelena was sold to cover the mounting debts and she left before her new masters could take her.

Founded by escaped slaves centuries before, Braavos had a long-standing policy of slavery being illegal. Without hesitation, she used her meager wealth to sail for Braavos.

In her first week on being in the city, Jelena found a tavern to cook at. Within three days, Ranulf hired her. Inside of twelve hours, Tyrion proclaimed her to be a genius and doubled her wages.

Around the same time, Arya moved in as well.

Like a stray cat choosing to adopt a family, she accepted meals and hung around for several hours. She would take a lesson in cooking or swordplay. She would see somebody working on a song or practicing with a spear and would demand to know how it was done. After a while, her distrust prickling, she would then abruptly vanish for some time.

On returning from one of those absences, Arya happened upon Tyrion.

Unable to sleep, he was at a rooftop window, drinking and looking at the stars. Quietly, the two of them began to talk and the conversation turned to Sansa.

Arya saw the affection in his eyes when he spoke of her sister. "Did you love her?"

Tyrion drained the cup and wished it was bottomless. During the day, when there was work to do, it was easy to forget unwelcome truths. At night, there was nothing to push the memories away. "I admired her terribly. She had no weapons, few allies and very little to defend herself with against my shit of a nephew. All she had was her dignity and Joffrey took great pleasure in shattering that."

"And, every single time, she would gather herself up, reforge her dignity and hold her head up high." Tyrion looked across the sea towards Westeros, towards wherever his wife was. "I know how difficult that can be."

"But, did you love her?", Arya persisted.

Gently, in the manner of somebody explaining a basic tenet of reality, Tyrion said, "What would be the point of loving somebody who could never love you back?"

The silence that fell stretched into several uncomfortable minutes until Tyrion muttered that he had drunk enough to get to sleep. He lurched inside towards his bed, leaving Arya alone with her thoughts.

It took time before she would admit Tyrion as a friend. People talk about instantly liking or hating somebody, but most of how we regard others is formed an inch at a time. You saw a person on a regular basis and you saw small acts of courtesy and kindness. Or, pettiness and thoughtlessness.

Arya didn't want to let go of her anger. It made her strong. But, over time, anything that she held against Tyrion gradually eroded away. And that night was when the first crack appeared.

########################################################################

Tyrion's work was interrupted by another acquaintance from Westeros.

A guard ushered in the bent form of Hallyne the Pyromancer and the old man wasted no time, accusing Tyrion of stealing maps and secrets of the Alchemist's Guild. "To create Wildfire of your own, no doubt!" he croaked, shaking a finger at the dwarf.

Tyrion _had_ stolen the maps, but that was simply because they were excellent maps. They showed the locations of numerous resources and minerals, how quickly they could be mined and transported, etc. Even if you didn't give the slightest damn about Wildfire, this was useful stuff.

Mentioning this made no dent in Hallyne's tirade. He kept ranting about theft and about people who wished to steal the power of The Substance.

"Tell me, since the battle, has anyone asked you to make more Wildfire?"

That made Hallyne pause. "That's beside the point," he finally blustered.

"That's precisely the point." Tyrion stared at the old man, an idea starting to form in the back of his mind. "Wildfire is powerfull, true. But, it's also unstable. Direct sunlight will sometimes set it off. It's risk usually outweighs it's worth."

Actually, after hearing about the Battle of the Blackwater, Tywin had been interested in using Wildfire. With all of the events going on, any future projects involving it had to be shelved for later. The potential, however, was not lost on the Hand of the King.

Grand Maester Pycelle heard about this through spies and used those same spies to convince Hallyne to go haring after Tyrion. Aerys II's obssesion with Wildfire had given the Alchemist's Guild influence that rivaled the Maesters and Pycelle didn't want a repeat of history.

"Futhermore, if you're not making The Substance, you're not doing anything else. Can you name another Guild Master who could drop everything to run off to Braavos for an extended period of time?" Holding up a hand to placate a sputtering Hallyne, Tyrion said, "I'm not saying this to insult you."

Obsessive as he was, Hallyne wasn't without some irony. "Oh, you're not?", he said dryly."

"No." Tyrion came out from behind his desk. "Follow me, I wish to show you something."

As the pair went downstairs, the Pyromancer received a quick synopsis of recent events in Braavos. Most of the relevant detail was about how both Tyrion and Dellyne were wounded and how the purple seaweed was used to pack the wounds.

"Since then, we've used it on various other cuts and injuries and it does fight infection. Not as well as cauterizing the wound with fire, though. Which is why the weed isn't more widely used."

A room on the lower floor had been turned into a makeshift laboratory and Hallyne ran an appraising eye over the instruments.

"I thought that if I could isolate the purple substance, I could improve it's ability to heal a wound," Tyrion continued. "But, I've tried a dozen distillation or refinement processes and nothing's worked."

"You're a man of great knowledge. Perhaps you can succeed where I have failed."

One could practically see Hallyne's mind churning as he thought this over. "The purple substance might not be the part of the plant that fights infection," he finally said.

"True."

"Many things reach a level of effectiveness and go no further. Concentrating this purple substance may not improve it."

"Again, this is true," Tyrion admitted.

"But, if it is an improvement over burning a wound," the old man said thoughtfully. "It would be in immense demand. Both in war and in peace."

That was when Tyrion knew that he had him. "Every single bottle or package would have your name and the crest of the Alchemist's Guild upon it."

A formal deal was inked that very day. And Tyrion's cohort gained a new member.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6.

As Tyrion's household expanded and guards, maids and various jack-of-all-trades were added, theoretically it should have been easier to slip in a team of assassins.

In practice, the opposite was true. The Little Lion was gaining a reputation as a man who paid his bills promptly and was generous for a job well done. And, gold in the hand beats the gratitude of a queen who was thousands of miles away.

One serious attempt was made and a guard named Arrigo was bribed. The man cheerfully took the money and, just as cheerfully, led the killers into an ambush with the other guards.

As he handed him a bonus, Tyrion asked the Braavosi what he had spent the bribe money on.

Arrigo grinned. "Same thing that I'll spend this money on. Wine and whores!"

"Honest andintelligent." Tyrion nodded at Ranulf. "Go ahead and promote him."

After they had moved in, Dellyne was given the responsibility of the lower levels: the stage, the balcony and boxes for the rich folk and the pit for the standing audience. And so, staff members soon included set painters, carpenters and costumers.

Familiar with a circle of poets and playwrights, the aspiring bard could not only feature his own compositions, but also others that he found worthy. The only caveat was that Dellyne was responsible for whatever happened. Profit or loss, fame or infamy, it all belonged to the Dornishman.

At first, the theater did run at a loss. Fortunately, that problem was solved by an insult.

Guasparre D'Croce, a rich merchant's son who vastly overestimated his own literary abilities, was pissed off that some foreigner had his own stage while the talent of a son of Braavos was ignored. He loudly and derisively voiced that opinion while Dellyne was singing and was told to back it up with steel.

Pausing only to place a wager on himself, Dellyne fought with elegance and skewered D'Croce to the cheers of the crowd. (Nobody had liked the guy.)

The next night, Baldasarre D'Croce, showed up to avenge his son and requested a duel. He knew his son had been a fool and created the situation that had sealed his fate. But, Guasparre had been his only child and vengence was demanded.

Despite being past fifty, he was lean and tough and had a lifetime of skill at the art of Water Dancing. He gave Dellyne a hard time and, if they had fought a year previously, the elder D'Croce would have triumphed.

However, Dellyne had seen Braavosi sword fighting in action and knew it's limitations. The style was built around the thrust and, when you extend yourself, it's important to get out as quickly as you go in.

After several minutes, the merchant slowed down. When he attacked, Dellyne counter-attacked with a downward slash that took the old man's hand off at the wrist.

Most would gone to their knees in agony at this point. Baldasarre D'Croce did not. Once his initial cry of pain was past, he stood straight and tall, one hand clutching at his bloody stump.

"Finish it," he hissed.

Dellyne saluted his bravery and took his head off his shoulders a moment later.

That was the end of that. There were other family members, but they didn't feel inclined to push it any further.

The fighting had gotten so many crowds into the theater that it was decided to make it part of the regular program, alternating nights with the plays and the songs. A section of the pit was roped off as an arena and a collapsable stand was placed on the stage itself.

Pit fighting in Essos was usually done with slaves and, while not forbidden, was not encouraged in Braavos. However, Tyrion was quick to point out that all of those who entered the arena were free men doing this out of choice.

Ranulf was in charge of judging the fighters. He would see them go up against the guards for a few minutes and would give his experienced opinion of their skill. Later, when they actually fought the match, he would post the odds.

Jelena quickly created a short menu of tasty snacks that were cheap, easy enough for the kitchen helpers to make and that went well with the wine that Tyrion supplied.

And so, the Giant's Theater became a nexus for noble swordsmen, amateur dramatists, actors, gamblers and brawlers.

########################################################################

While the rest were busy with words and bloodshed, the Pyromancer was absorbed in his own task.

Which he finished in less than a week.

Hallyne cackled at the look on Tyrion's face when he informed the man that he was done. Generously, he told his employer that his speedy success was at least partially due to Tyrion's earlier attempts.

"You eliminated several methods of refinement, my lord." The Pyromancer gestured at some purple fluid sitting in a beaker on his worktable. "That enabled me to focus on certain avenues of research."

Five tons of wet seaweed gets dried down to one ton. Then, it gets burnt and the ashes are dissolved in water. Finally, acid of sulphur is added to reconstitute the purple substance.

The tricky part was naming it. Hallyne refused to keep calling it "the purple substance". To him, Wildfire was "The Substance" and nothing else could aspire to any variation of the title. In the end, they went with Ranulf's suggestion, "The Drowned God's Wine." Everybody agreed that it had a certain majesty to it.

Testing it was simple, since the pit fighting was starting and they used it on the inevitable wounds. It was still a bit early to tell. Many times wounds didn't get infected simply because. But, it seemed to work.

########################################################################

Because she'd spent so much time in a large family, Jelena liked to see a formal, sit-down dinner. It was good to have at least one meal where everyone was together.

She never told anyone this. Even under ideal circumstances, a slave is a slave and you learn to keep quiet. Instead, she created spectacular meals at a set time every evening and everybody began arriving to them without being asked.

While relaxing after stuffing themselves, Tyrion often held a casual, impromptu "Small Council" meeting and got everybody's opinion on current events.

Tonight had been lamb, roasted with rosemary and garlic and served on a bed of rice and walnuts.

Tyrion and Arya practiced throwing daggers at a target on the wall. Both of them had stepped up their fight training (Tyrion out of necessity, Arya out of delight) and they often found themselves in friendly competition.

Off in a corner, the Pyromancer flicked through a book. Collectors throughout Essos were constantly arriving to get copies made of their rare volumes and to buy copies of others. Tyrion could choose the best and his library was rapidly becoming the finest in the known world.

Ranulf sharpened his axes. Dellyne worked on a song. The thunk of the knives and the liquid rasp of the whetstone formed an odd music with the hummed snatches of improvised tunes.

"Are you ever planning on going back?"

Tyrion fumbled his throw and gave Arya a look. "You have a real talent for asking uncomfortable questions."

"I could dance around the subject for a bit," Arya said as she tossed her last dagger. A bit too high. "That doesn't really make asking it any better, just draws the whole thing out."

"True." Last dagger for Tyrion. Bulls-eye. Despite the earlier mistake, that tied it up. "Best two out of three?"

"Sure."

While she went to yank the blades out, Tyrion continued, "I know that I'll go back one day. Even as I left, I knew that I would one day return."

"What I'll do when I return, that's the mystery." Jelena had set out raspberry tarts for dessert and Tyrion decided that he'd better grab one before Ranulf and Arya demolished them all.

Dagger in one hand and pastry in the other, Tyrion said, "I do know that when I go back, I'll need gold in my pocket and an army at my back." He threw the dagger to punctuate his point, got another bulls-eye and rewarded himself with a bite.

While Arya scowled, Ranulf commented, "You're getting the gold. But, you'll need a lot more if you're going to hire an army."

"Yes, I know." One of the walls had a large map of Braavos and the surrounding areas and Tyrion gestured to it as he explained his latest idea.

Space was needed to spread out the wet seaweed and burn it after it dried. A barren section of the mainland, accessible by boat and useless for any crops, had been chosen and bought.

Nearby was a piece of land that was perfectly flat, bordered by steep hills on three sides with the final side open. Tyrion had taken one look and realized that it made a perfect site for a large open-air arena.

"Seating can be cut into the hills, sand can be packed into the flat area and tents can be set up for food and drink."

Interested enough to abandon his song, Dellyne cocked an eyebrow at his employer. "Are you going to have large battles, instead of one on one duels?"

Tyrion shrugged. "If there's enough demand, we can have large battles. Actually, I was thinking about a racetrack."

There were plenty of theaters and several fighting arenas, but, in a city built on islands, space was at a premium. There were no large tracks in Braavos and no horse or dog racing.

Wagering that the novelty of it all would be enough to get people to come to the mainland, Tyrion decided to take the plunge and purchase the land.

########################################################################

Soon, other uses for that land became apparent.

A large caravan of merchants along with a team of mercenary protectors found themselves barred from entering Braavos because of the plague.

To call it plague was a bit of an overestimate. It was actually a form of pox called "The Witches Marks".

When she heard of this, Arya exclaimed, "Oh, I had that when I was a child."

So did Tyrion. As did most people. The disease caused people to break out in itchy red spots. It was uncomfortable, but was usually not fatal unless you caught it in old age, past fifty or sixty.

It didn't reinfect people who already had it and it was already dying down in the caravan anyway. So, Tyrion agreed to let them camp on the land he purchased for the arena. It would help defray the cost of the future construction.

What could go wrong?

########################################################################

Some of the men sent to deliver supplies came back white as death and shaking with fear.

The Pale Mare had broken out in the Merchant's Camp.

One of the most feared diseases in the world, the Bloody Flux caused caused high fever and uncontrolled diarrhea. Shortly after onset, a victim's shit would become laced with blood as their insides began to bleed. Death followed soon after.

It was known by several names. The Pale Mare was one of the more common ones. According to legend, the great city of Meereen was first ravaged by the sickness when it was brought in by a dying rider mounted on a pale mare.

It killed three out of every four people it touched. Beyond killing or isolating the people who had it, there was no treatment.

Soldiers who would face a wall of spears or a storm of arrows without flinching broke and ran from the slightest hint of the Pale Mare. No one could blame them.

Ordinarily, Tyrion would have pursued the usual quarantine methods and left the whole mess alone. However, his contract specifically stated that he would have to provide food, supplies and medical attention. The fact that it was a different disease now was not addressed in the contract and was, therefore, the dwarf's bad luck.

The deal had been made with the Merchant's Guild and brokered by the Iron Bank. And, it was a representative of the Iron Bank who calmly pointed out all of the previous facts to Tyrion.

Growing up as Tywin's son had taught several valuable lessons. One of which was: If you've been given a thankless, shitty, possibly deadly job, there was no use complaining about it.

Tyrion swallowed his anger, sighed and got on with the shitty, thankless, possibly deadly job.

########################################################################

The whole household turned out to see Tyrion leave.

When it became obvious that no one would go to the camp to deliver supplies, the Little Lion cut short all of the arguments.

"Fine", he snapped. "I'll go deliver them myself."

The wagons were loaded and a barge was hired to take them to the mainland. Working steadily and with the people of the camp doing the unloading, the deliverys should be done before nightfall.

When Tyrion appeared, he wore cotton gloves, a cotton scarf and both were stained purple.

Dellyne curiously asked what they were for and Tyrion explained that, while beseiging cities, plague victims were often catapulted over the walls to infect the defenders.

A treatise by Karl Godfist, well-known for his skill in building and using seige weaponry, suggested wearing gloves and putting a scarf across your mouth while dealing with plague victims. He theorized that it helped to block the sickness.

"And, the purple?"

"Drowned God's Wine is supposed to fight infection." Tyrion climbed up into the driver's seat. "Let's see if it'll fight this."

He picked up the reins and Arya said, "You don't have to do this."

Many in Westeros made the jest that the use of a lion for the Lannister Sigil was apt. A group of lions was a pride and pride certainly defined the Lannisters.

The look on Tyrion's face was as proud as any of his forebears. "I agreed to this," He said quietly, snapped the reins and drove out the courtyard.

"He's mad."

Nobody saw which of the surrounding Braavosi servants said that, but Arya took the question seriously. "He's a Lannister."

Turning, she looked at the incomprehension on most of the faces and elaborated. "Lannisters always pay their debts. They may stab you a moment after they're done paying. They may figure out a dozen ways of cheating you that are not covered by the original bargain. But, anything they actually owe, they will repay. Even if it kills them."

Turning, she went in the building and shortly returned, wearing purple-stained gloves and scarf. Quickly, she saddled a horse.

"Where are you going?", Ranulf asked, already knowing the answer, but not believing it.

Arya grinned at the onlookers, an expression that managed to combine the glory of youth and the fatalism of a cynic. "If a Lannister can do it, so can a Stark."

With a yell, she raced out of the courtyard, intent on catching up with Tyrion.

########################################################################

Tyrion dealt with his fear by treating the whole matter as an intellectual exercise. Besides which, his brain had solved problems and saved his hide before, why not now?

Even in the face of the Pale Mare, there are always those who are willing to do anything for money. High wages were promised as well as benefits to any surviving family members and, slowly, a small core of people willing to tend to the sick were assembled.

Given a choice of coming in contact with the disease or helping in other ways, most people chose the latter. The books in Tyrion's library were poured through, healers throughout the city and countryside were consulted and any suggestion that might have merit was sent to the quarantine site.

Many of the best ideas were the simple, commonsense ones. People were losing large amount of fluid through diarrhea. Therefore, they had to drink large amounts of water.

There was blood in the people's discharges, therefore they had internal wounds. The Drowned God's Wine (Often called Godswine for short) was added to the water that the patients drank. They played with the dosage, but a 25th part added to boiled water seemed to work best.

The boiling part was Hallyne's idea. Granted, he was obsessed with fire and purifying things with fire, but they tried it anyway. And, it worked.

Another contribution from the Pyromancer was the addition of salt. After all, with the high fevers going on, people were losing salt through their sweat.

More salt was added to Jelena's contribution, a kind of potage made from white beans and leafy greens. It sat well on a person's stomach and gave strength to the weak. And, it helped.

Not all of the ideas worked. Out of the dozens that were tried, many did nothing and some actually made things worse.

Some fevers can be broken by sweating them out. So, Tyrion had a portable sauna set up inside a tent and tried it on five of the afflicted. Within ten minutes, they dropped like flies and he hastily had them brought outside. Only two of the five survived and that was the end of that experiment.

An inch at a time, they fought their way through this. The real deciding factor was not catching it in the first place. All of those tending to the sick were given the purple gloves and scarves. And everybody, even those who hadn't caught the Pale Mare, drank the treated water.

Once it had managed to run it's course, they had managed to save nearly half of the people. And, out of those attending to the sick, less than a tenth caught the disease.

A town that had been in the path of the Merchant's route also reported an outbreak of the Bloody Flux and Tyrion astounded everybody (To some degree, including himself) by offering to go deal with it.

Curiosity can be quite a strong spur. Having achieved so much success against what many saw as unstoppable leviathan, Tyrion wanted to see if he could do even better. And, there were things that they hadn't tried yet.

A fragment of text from a scroll that was so ancient that it could have come from old Valerya. It suggested a small portion of ground up "Battlement Metal" dissolved in water to fight the disease. The desciption puzzled everybody and, after much debate between Tyrion and Hallyne, they finally decided to try Zinc. It had a blocky natural shape that resembled a wall of a castle.

Whether or not that was what the text meant, it helped. The Purple Riders (Named so for their scarves and gloves) stayed at the town for three weeks and saved seven or eight out of every ten.

On the ride back to Braavos, Arya commented on the astounding success of the treatments. Tyrion's response was to point out that people never really bothered to treat it before, because they didn't want to risk their lives catching it. The sick were merely abandoned to their fate. Even among the nobility, victims were left enough milk of the poppy to dull their pain and left to die in isolation.

"The Pale Mare has no cure. From our grandfather's time and our grandfather's before them, everybody has always known that there is no cure." Tyrion swept his arm along the sky, a derisive gesture that managed to indicate the world and the stupidity of the people in it. "I've always distrusted what "everybody knows". Back in King's Landing, everybody knew that Joffrey was a noble boy and a good King. He was just led astray by his evil Demon Monkey of an uncle."

Quietly, Arya said, "I'm sorry."

An awkward silence followed, finally broken by Arya adding, "Look on the bright side."

"What's that?"

"Joffrey's dead and we're alive." Arya smirked. "So, fuck him."

Tyrion gasped in mock indignation. "My lady, such language! As soon as we get back, a tutor will have to be arraigned to teach you proper deportment."

Arya had to laugh. "Not me."

"Proper speaking and ettiquette."

"Like Hell I will."

"Proper table manners."

"If it falls on the floor, I don't eat it. That's proper."

"And", Tyrion assumed the attitude of somebody delivering a crushing blow, "Embroidery."

"NEVER!"

The songs and legends never spoke of the quiet moments of humor, but it was the quiet moments of humor that made the songs and legends possible. As the two of them shared a laugh, the future seemed less bleak and the world was less unjust.


End file.
